


Between Their Teeth

by CosmicPrincen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: An abundance of sass, Conspiracy, General spy stuff, M/M, Mainly Napoleon / Illya with ot3 bits, Multi, Rating will change, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicPrincen/pseuds/CosmicPrincen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shouldn't be too bad, right?” Napoleon said tossing the folder back into the pile and sending papers fluttering weakly to the floor.</p><p>Famous last words.</p><p>--</p><p>UNCLE is experiencing mission sabotage.</p><p>Also, Napoleon doesn't know what the capital of Bulgaria is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to Avengingcoulson, who is the best cheerleader. And blessings be to Andrew, who made sure my words sound okay.

The people who say that knowledge is power are idiots. Knowledge is a tool. If you don't know what to do with it, it doesn't do a damn thing.   
  
Anybody can hear rumors that a certain aristocrat has old Allied plans from the war. A curious person could discover that they plan to sell them to any interested Soviets with the not-incorrect-but-also-not-entirely-true description that they're "American plans". And a moderately intelligent person can guess that this won't end well. The question is what that moderately intelligent person will do with that information.   
Or rather, what a very intelligent person will do.   
  
The answer goes something like this:   
  
First, you verify the relationship between "truth" and "rumor" is something along the lines of siblings, or at least first cousins. If you're wrong in one direction, you've wasted your time for nothing. Wrong in the other, and you've possibly failed to stop World War III. Up to you which sounds worse; it depends on the person.

 

Next is some research on the aristocrat. All of them are ultimately the same person in different expensive clothes so it might even be a negligible step in any case.   
  


If you have a Russian companion, now could be the appropriate time for them to say they're KGB (yet another not-incorrect-but-also-not-entirely-true description) and attempt to get the plans from the aristocrat and leave them none the wiser.

If you are Napoleon Solo, you do have a Russian companion. But said Russian companion has terrible people skills so depending on the situation it might not even be worth wrestling with the iron Soviet will in an attempt to teach him concepts like “charm”.

 

Either way, you weasel the documents away and give the man with too much money and time on his hands a firm talking to.   
  
And, inevitably, at some point in the operation your German partner will bail you out of trouble, reminding you to buy her something pretty as thanks.

 

Simple, really.

  
So the fact that it doesn't work out that way is really quite disappointing. And throws an irritating wrench in Napoleon's evening plans to celebrate victory with half-hearted bickering and liquor.   
And -- more frustrating still -- Napoleon can't figure out where it went wrong. Not that it was a catastrophic end result, but the fact remained that Illya’s Russian former-handlers  _ shouldn't _ have gotten there first. UNCLE, Waverly had assured him time and time again, had access to the best intel possible for the sorts of assignments they were supposed to be completing. To be fair, until this point that had definitely seemed to be true. Tonight, though, communication from Waverly was notably absent. Maybe he was going over every detail in mild irritation the same way the rest of them were.

 

Or at least, that's what Napoleon assumed his partners were doing. Illya was curled over his chessboard. He hadn't touched a piece in twenty minutes in favor of giving them moody glares. Gaby was cleaning all of their guns with sharp, angry movements.

 

None of them like to lose.

 

“Any idea how your friends managed to get right in under our noses, Peril?” Napoleon says, pointedly looking to the bottom of his glass rather than meeting the flinty eyes he can feel suddenly boring holes into the side of his head.

 

“No.”

  
“Really. Because it's a bit uncanny--”

 

Illya's chair scrapes, then clatters to the floor.

 

“I said. I do not. Know.”   
  


Ignoring him now will only make it worse, so Napoleon sets down his glass and looks up. Even yards away, Illya manages to loom over him, posture tight and coiled. He looks like he wants to break Napoleon's nose. More than usual, that is.

 

“ _ Stop it _ .”

 

Napoleon can see the exact moment when hard blue eyes flick to the corner of the room where Gaby is wiping her hands off with a grimy towel in quick jerks.

“He said he doesn't know. Leave him alone.”

 

“I asked a simple question, Peril flips his chair, and you're lecturing  _ me _ ?”

 

It's bullshit and they all know it. Needling Illya is practically a reflex by this point, but this is intentional. A deliberate attempt to start a fight, hoping to burn off the indignation of losing by winning something else. But lying was a reflex long before Napoleon knew Illya even existed. Besides, a fight with Gaby would do just as well.

 

“Leave him alone.” she repeats, meeting his eyes.

 

“I think he can stand up for himself without your help.”

 

Illya has gone oddly quiet. It's the only way Napoleon can think to draw him back into the tense conversation, high emotions simmering under their words. Why choose between arguing with Gaby and Illya when they can all yell at each other? Win-win. Er, win-win-win. It's bad to bottle up your emotions.

 

That was Illya's problem. Well, one of them.

 

The man in question has his hands tightly curled into fists, jaw clenched. But nothing indicating imminent eruption. They're safe. Napoleon can keep pushing without fear that when Illya snaps, it'll be his neck.

He doesn't get the chance. The Russian stalks from the room, retrieving his jacket as he goes and slamming the door behind him.

 

“Happy?” Gaby asks, terse and disappointed.

 

“No.” Napoleon says, honestly, and downs the rest of his glass.

  
  
  


 

 

Illya is gone all night.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

He rejoins them when they're at breakfast in a quaint outdoor cafe with awful tea but excellent service. Napoleon has spent the entire meal trying to decide if a tip is deserved. Illya is suddenly there after Napoleon had looked down to make sure the strawberries weren't falling off his pastry. The Russian smiles at Gaby, familiar and reassuring.

 

“Rough night, Peril?” Napoleon asks. Tactless, yes. Very. But he's not trying to be an ass-- he is genuinely curious. Illya looks terrible. Napoleon knows from having shared rooms with him that Illya doesn't sleep well on the best of nights. Last night was clearly not one of the best. Illya pulls one of the metal chairs to their small table with a scrape, and he seems to deflate as he falls into it. He ignores the question entirely. Instead, Illya presses his fingertips to his eyes and Napoleon is near positive he isn't inventing the low groaning sound he can hear. Whatever he did that kept him from returning, it didn't seem like it was enjoyable. Which ruled out the idea that he had gone out to blow off steam, as it were. A suggestion that had earned him an elbow from Gaby the previous night.

...Unless the sex was spectacularly bad; there was an option. Attempting to boost your spirits only to be monumentally disappointed? That would put anyone in a bad mood.

 

Speculation about his partner's sex life aside, the most likely explanation was wetwork.

 

Napoleon preferred not to, and Gaby was never asked to. He didn't know if that was because she had requested that, or because Waverly assumed she wouldn't handle it well. He hadn't asked. Though Gaby hadn't shown the same restraint. Napoleon had said it was because it wasn't one of his skills. Illya said it was because Napoleon didn't like that you can't gloat to dead bodies. He'd gotten a laugh out of Gaby for that one. Whatever the reasons, when that was the focus of a mission it usually fell into Illya’s more than capable hands. He didn't seem to mind; hardly seemed to notice the bodies stacking up under his name. Which-- perhaps Napoleon was wrong about it but he had the distinct feeling that it was other demons that haunted Illya. Something aside from the murder of evil men kept him awake, kept him tense and ready to snap at almost any moment. Maybe even something worse.

 

Even if it didn't haunt him, it did tend to be time consuming.

 

“You know you can kill people in the daytime, right?” Napoleon says between another bite of pastry. Not that it would make any difference: Illya was a traditionalist. And a bit dramatic. Which was, admittedly, a very pot-calling-the-kettle-black thing to think.

 

Illya gives him an odd look. It's a little startled, a little wounded, maybe. It's gone and settled easily into disdain before Napoleon can pin it down to his satisfaction.

 

“Didn't kill anybody, cowboy.”

 

Not the reaction Napoleon anticipated, and for a moment he wishes he had the sort of camaraderie that would justify asking how Kuryakin had spent the night. But seeing as they weren't even on a first name basis, it was unlikely Napoleon would get anything but a blank look in return. They could work together. They didn't have to be best friends. That was all that mattered.

 

“I've a meeting to go to. Stay out of trouble.” Gaby says, collecting her things and giving Napoleon and Illya both a kiss on the cheek in farewell. Both men smiled to themselves, but Illya suppressed it as soon as he noticed Napoleon was watching him.

Waverly had been right, that first mission. They were all very fond of Gaby.

 

However, Napoleon couldn't help the spike of annoyance when he realized she had left him with the bill.

 

He still hasn't decided if he's going to tip.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

“Another assignment, boys,” Gaby announces when she returns from her meeting with Waverly, dropping the folders on the coffee table en route to the bathroom. Napoleon can hear her stripping off her heavy jewelry; clanking it down with little care. Gaby was all business, at heart. She hadn't had the chance to learn about luxury, and with a few notable exceptions, didn't care. She took Illya with her whenever she went shopping, and Napoleon assumed she just bought whatever he told her to.  As much as Napoleon hates conceding defeat to what was in many ways their first argument, he has to admit she always looks good.

 

“What sort of assignment?” Napoleon asks from where he's pretending to read a book. He's not going to get up if it's not one that concerns him. Some of them didn't. And frankly, given how the last one went, Napoleon could use a break.

 

Gaby’s voice comes from the bathroom.

“Honeypot.”

 

Damn.

Illya didn't do honeypot missions. For obvious reasons, starting with “highly volatile” and ending with “abysmal interpersonal skills”. Which meant it was either Gaby or himself.

 

Napoleon levers himself up with a sigh, heading toward the table. Illya is already thumbing through one of the files.

 

“Playboy or femme fatale?”

 

“It's me.” Gaby comes to the doorway and leans against it. Her makeup is off, as well as her shoes. Her hair is coming out of its careful styling. Napoleon likes her like this. A mix of the chop shop girl he first met and the spy he now knows.

 

“Too cute to be femme fatale.” Illya grunts and turns a page in their brief.

Gaby purses her lips.

 

“Fooled you.”

 

Illya doesn't look up, but Napoleon can see the corner of his mouth bow into the shadow of the soft, warm smile he reserves just for her: the Gaby Teller Special.

 

“And what of me and Peril? Bodyguard duty?” Not a bad deal, all things considered. Gaby could more than handle herself. They would only need to bail her out if things got extremely serious. Napoleon might get a break after all.

 

“Sniper--”

 

“Me.” Illya interrupted her, but she continued as if she hadn't noticed.

 

“And tail.”

 

Napoleon's natural competitive nature flared at Illya calling dibs before she had even finished speaking, but he couldn't fault the conclusion. Illya was better at sitting in one place than he was, and Napoleon was better at blending in. It played to their strengths. They could have swapped, but it made sense this way. For someone so unbalanced, Illya often made a bizarre amount of sense.

 

Gaby looked between them and Napoleon gave her a nod. No complaints there, even if he would be on his feet the whole time. Better than lying on his stomach on a rooftop, though, in his opinion. 

Illya hadn't looked up from the brief. He didn't read English very quickly, and neither of them was about to rush him about it.

 

“Anything special we should know?”

 

Gaby fell into a chair and swung her feet, still in her stockings, up onto Illya's thigh. One big hand dropped to her ankle and stayed there until Illya had to turn another page. There was something beautiful about the ease of their interactions, and Napoleon couldn't help but watch, maybe do some speculating.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Sofia.”

 

Napoleon gives her a blank look.

 

“Capital of People's Republic of Bulgaria, cowboy.” Illya explained, and when Napoleon shrugs in response, unrepentant -- is he supposed to know every city in every country? -- it prompts a snort from Illya.

 

“It's apparently a popular holiday destination--” Gaby pauses, looks over at Illya as if for confirmation.

 

“Very popular,” he mutters, distracted. He has the brief open again and his brows have knit together while he reads.

 

“Which means politicians.” Napoleon finishes before Gaby has the chance.

She nods.

 

“Ones we're not entirely sure of, these days. They've been pretty quiet lately.”

 

Napoleon took the plunge and flipped open one of the other folders.

 

Ah.

 

_ That _ politician.

Whoever thought that Swedes were inherently neutral was painfully misinformed.

 

“Shouldn't be too bad, right?” Napoleon says, tossing the folder back into the pile and sending papers fluttering weakly to the floor.

 

Famous last words.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“Should start carrying around a pair of boots for you to slip in for whenever this happens,” Napoleon panted, trying to keep Gaby moving while still being mindful of the fact that she was wearing heels.

“Please,” she spat, shaking his hand off her wrist. Napoleon realizes in retrospect that he had probably been pulling her off balance. No time for apologies, he would make it up to her later somehow.

 

With nothing but a look between them, they duck into a crooked alleyway. They had been circling the site of the operation, trying to give Illya a chance to take out the thugs that had been giving chase for -- Napoleon checks his watch -- half an hour now.

But the men don't follow. A furtive glance into the street reveals their bodies on the ground.

 

“About damn time, Peril.” Napoleon finds himself muttering.

 

For the first time since Gaby had been confronted about her identity, they allow themselves a rest. If they had waited in one place before, undoubtedly more goons would have shown up, and that was a fight they never would have seen the other side of. Gaby wrestles off her shoes, hissing curses in three languages. Now on the priority list for preparation for the next mission: boots.

 

Ten minutes later, Illya skids around the corner. He's flushed, but not breathing half as hard as they are. He scans them quickly, looking for any injuries.

 

“Okay?” he says, and his voice is a little hoarse.

 

They both nod.

 

“How the hell did they know?”

 

None of them have answers, but he asks anyways.

He didn't know it then, but Napoleon would be asking that question a lot over the next few months.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a little more violence-y, folks, and marks the change in archive warning.

Seven major missions, all tipped off-balance just enough for their plans to crash before the scrambling trio could readjust and right them again. The smaller ones? The smaller ones were fine. The little things, domestic affairs. No trouble at all. Business as usual. But anything with large consequences has begun to feel impossible to complete successfully.

 

Illya breaks a mirror as soon as they enter their hotel room. 

 

Napoleon is missing a shoe and Gaby has a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. She tears her necklace off and throws it to the floor. Napoleon can't help but remember the only other time he's seen her do that: their first assignment. Rome. The Vinceguerra’s. To be more accurate, she had done it because of Illya. Then, Napoleon had sweet-talked her back. Now, if he had been wearing a necklace, he would have tried his own hand at denting the floor with expensive jewelry.

 

But he isn't given to violent outbursts, not really. He leaves that to Illya.

 

Who, speaking of, has shown  _ remarkable _ restraint in only breaking the one mirror. When it's less likely to be totally counterproductive, Napoleon might mention how proud he is. 

 

Napoleon takes off his remaining shoe and puts it and his gun in his suitcase before beginning to unknot his tie. Gaby has retreated to the bathroom and, tie discarded, he follows her, limping somewhat.  His sock sticks to the wood floor, tacky with half congealed blood and leaving oddly shaped splotches of dark red behind it. He passes Illya, staring at his own fractured reflection in the mirror now spiderwebbed with cracks. Best to leave him alone for a while if they wanted to have any reflective surfaces left when they checked out.

As Napoleon and Gaby both had injuries to attend to and he didn't, that wouldn't be too difficult to do.

 

Gaby is prodding at her nose when Napoleon slips in behind her in the bathroom. He touches her hip as he passes. Solidarity? Apology? Napoleon himself honestly isn't sure, but she understands. He knows that much. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and watches her lips twist in pain or displeasure. Or both, perhaps. Her knuckles are black with blood and dirt, but Gaby is occupied; likely trying to figure out if there's any kind of break or if she'll have a black eye in the next day or so. Napoleon levers himself up, careful not to put weight on his injured foot. 

Untying the laces of his now-MIA shoe had left the guard dog with nothing but patent leather in his jaws, but Napoleon is fairly certain that it had ripped out chunks of his flesh when the shoe was torn off of him. He isn't in a hurry to look.

 

Helping Gaby is a good excuse not to, even if it's delaying the inevitable.

 

“Let me.” Napoleon says, and turns on the sink.

 

Gaby’s wrists jerk in his hold when he pushes her hands under the water, glaring at him over her shoulder. Napoleon gives her an unrepentant smile and she releases a long suffering sigh as though dealing with him is equivalent to one of the trials of Hercules. Napoleon knows better. She is as fond of them as they are of her. He holds her hands under the water until it runs clear, or at least close to it. She wouldn't have pulled away just to be contrary, Gaby isn't a child. But he holds her anyways, thumbs brushing narrow wrists and feeling the way her body shifts against his chest. Neither of them seem to mind. They also don't comment on it.

 

There's one bit of gravel that Napoleon has to dig out with tweezers, and Gaby bears it silently, biting her tongue and looking away. He sees the tears fill her eyes, and says nothing. As if he would mock her for crying about getting a rock removed from where it had been embedded in her flesh.

 

Gaby briefly takes his hand and squeezes it in thanks, then hissing when it stretches torn and tender skin. Napoleon smiles wryly and settles back down on the edge of the tub to try and convince himself to take his sock off. The blood will have hardened enough that it'll stick and tear, and he's fairly certain that some of the fabric got shoved up into his wounds. Perfect.

 

Just after the sound of what could be Gaby appropriating some of the ice bucket’s contents for a much more medical purpose than originally intended, Napoleon looks up to see Illya in the door. For such a big man he moves in an unnervingly silent way. Illya is giving him the now-familiar look he gets when he realizes how badly one of his partners is injured. He looks like he can barely keep himself from finding the culprit and beating them to death. It's kind of nice, in a terrifying sort of way.

 

“Peril.”

 

“Alright, Cowboy?”

 

“You know, I have no idea.” Napoleon is overly cheerful on purpose, and looks down at his still-stockinged foot. He realizes his mistake as soon as Illya sinks into a crouch and pushes up Napoleon's trouser leg. Illya's hands are large and strong, calloused from various guns, knives, and other unknown hardships. And  _ cold _ . For some reason, his hands are always cold. Napoleon glares at him.

 

“Do you mind?”

 

“Sorry, Cowboy.”

 

He doesn't look all that sorry.

 

Illya is carefully rolling down the top of his sock, getting it as close to the point where it is soaked with blood as possible before pausing to hand Napoleon a washcloth.

 

“Bite.”

 

Napoleon rolls his eyes.

 

“Ready?”

 

“No.”

 

“I said bite.”

 

Illya doesn't seem to be terribly bothered that Napoleon didn't comply, as he removes the rest in a quick jerk without giving him time to get the washcloth anywhere near his mouth.

 

Napoleon tastes blood, having bit down hard on his lip. When he opens his mouth, it's to curse in whatever language leaves his tongue.

 

Illya is looking at his face, not his foot. Specifically, his mouth. Napoleon runs his tongue over his bottom lip before swiping at it with the side of his hand. Illya's hand has tightened on his ankle, and he stares.

 

“Well?”

 

Illya blinks.

 

Napoleon wiggles his foot in Illya's grasp.

“How is it?”

 

Illya looks down. Napoleon isn't quite ready to do that yet, but he wishes it was Gaby. He would have some idea of the severity if it was her looking. Illya is completely inscrutable.

 

“Could be worse,” he says finally. He doesn't look happy, but ‘happy’ is hardly his default state so it isn't saying much.

 

“Comforting.” Adrenaline finally beginning to ebb, there's a sort of throbbing at the end of Napoleon's right leg that promises to resolve into a deep, dull pain later.

  
  


“Be back.”

  
  


That's when Napoleon looks. And it's… It's not as bad as he feared, honestly. It's not pretty, and he was right about chunks being missing-- as well as some deep gouges -- but he'll be functional, at least.

 

Illya returns with a small metal box stenciled in Cyrillic that he sets on the counter before undoing the latches. First aid kit, he figures

  
  


“Let me guess,” Napoleon drawls, “This won't hurt a bit.”

 

Evidently Russian doctors don't give in to telling those sorts of fibs, or Russians are too smart to believe them because Illya frowns at the quip.

 

“Did you hit your head, Cowboy? Of course this will hurt. A dog bit off half your foot.”

 

“That's an exaggeration.”

  
  


Illya shrugs one shoulder, conceding the point, and sets to work. He wasn't lying: it hurts.

But by the time he is finished, Napoleon's foot is neatly wrapped and feeling somewhat soothed by an unidentified cream Illya had put on it. As he's used to dressing his own wounds with spartan supplies, having someone else do it for him with an actual kit feels almost lavish. Illya grabs his arm when he attempts to stand on his own and hovers around him while Napoleon makes his way to the bed. It almost seems like he cares. Gaby is already in the bed, her back turned toward them, but there's more than enough room. Besides, he figures he deserves it.

 

“Are you going to tuck me in?” Napoleon asks innocently. Illya gives him a scornful look, but for a moment it almost looks as though he considers it. 

  
  


“Sleep, Cowboy.”

 

“Believe me, Peril, I plan to.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Their post mission briefing is a disaster. Seeing as the mission itself was a disaster, this is unsurprising. But disappointing all the same. Napoleon always hopes there will be some mysterious circumstance that will make it bearable after a failure, but there never is. After meeting their eyes in silence for a few moments, Waverly announces he's giving them two weeks’ leave in South America. He says they clearly need to do something else for a while, seeing as doing their jobs doesn't seem to be working. They all bear the criticism in silence, but Napoleon sees how Illya's hands clench. A break will do them good, release some tension and let them return with clear heads, in theory.

 

Napoleon pretends it isn't also partly because of his own injury which, despite his best efforts, has hampered his movements.

 

They're on a plane the next day.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Venezuela is hot in the best sort of way -- more than welcome after so much time in Europe in the colder months -- and Napoleon knows better than to assume Waverly wants them to ignore the chance to gather some intel. So it's only half a vacation. Still, he'll take it. Gaby adores the country, and her skin becomes brown and somewhat freckled from all her time in the sun.

Alternatively, Illya slips out most nights. Presumably to skulk in alleyways making sure he doesn't lose his intimidating streak by practicing it on unsuspecting passersby.

  
  


It's because of this odd habit that Gaby and Napoleon don't know he's been gone for too long until they get a phone call.

Illya had been talking with contacts, settling some old scores. As could have been predicted, this ended badly and Illya had disappeared from UNCLE’s radar --

 

(Of course they were all bugged, why wouldn't they be?)

 

\-- however they did know the exact point his signal had gone dark. He shouldn't be too difficult to find, but whoever had taken him meant business.

  
  


Which was why it is so surprising when Gaby and Napoleon don't  encounter any resistance.

 

Napoleon doesn't buy it. It can't be this easy. He and Gaby leave their guns raised, eyes darting in the darkness of the abandoned building. It was the closest structure to where Illya had disappeared; the logical place to look. But no one’s there. Even the greenest of spies would have left someone to make sure they weren't being followed.

Or maybe, just maybe, they're looking nowhere near the right place.

 

“Illya!” 

 

Napoleon wants to caution Gaby to be quiet, but, well, there doesn't seem any reason to be. Illya is sitting on concrete floor, leaned against the wall and looking at the ceiling. His eyes slide to Gaby.

 

“Hello, little chop shop girl,”

 

His voice is strangely calm. To the point where it worries Napoleon more than if Illya had been in hysterics.

 

Gaby is crouched next to him by now, a hand touching his elbow where it rests on his bent knee. Napoleon is trying to walk quickly, but still has a bit of a limp.

 

“All right, Peril?” he inquires once he has gotten close enough to scan for injuries. He doesn't see any, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. Illya nods.

 

“Have to make telephone call to KGB when we go back.”

 

Gaby starts, looking anxiously at Napoleon.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

Illya makes a vague gesture.

 

“Old ‘friends’, Cowboy. I'm sure you have some as well.”

 

Napoleon actually had a lot of old ‘friends’, so he understood that perfectly. Presumably, the KGB was supposed to keep Illya's off his back. Maybe they didn't feel like doing that anymore, seeing as he was working for UNCLE. Now Napoleon nods. If the KGB wasn't going to provide him the same services, perhaps they could say that the Soviets weren't being entirely cooperative. That has to be leverage for something, but he’s still figuring out exactly what that would be. In fact, old ‘friends’ suddenly butting in might explain their string of bad luck.

 

“Then let's get you back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Napoleon returns to his rooms after talking with Waverly on the telephone in Gaby’s suite, Illya is spitting demands into Napoleon's  phone faster than he could hope to follow. Whatever it is, it isn't good. Napoleon shrugs. He'll undoubtedly hear about it later. He takes the day's paper off one of the small decorative tables fancy hotels seemed to like so much. Settling himself on the bed he snaps the paper open.

 

Illya's furious conversation with the KGB is  _ terribly _ distracting, and Napoleon shoots a look over the top of the paper. It's useless: Illya has his back to him. They had agreed Illya shouldn't spend the night alone, just in case his mysterious assailants decided to make a second, more damaging attempt. He had sympathy for the Russian's ordeal, truly. But these  _ were _ his rooms. Napoleon sighs, and attempts to read once more. Not long after, Illya falls silent. If the call was over, Napoleon would have expected him to slam the handset down or throw something, based on how it had sounded. He looks over the paper toward the tight, tense figure in the other room.

 

Illya is frozen. Frozen, but for the tapping of the hand not holding the phone against the side of his leg.

 

Napoleon frowns.

 

“All right there, Peril?” he calls out in a stage whisper.

 

Illya ignores him, sways on his feet and drops the handset. After a moment, even from here, Napoleon can hear the tone of the disconnected line.

 

His shoulders are hunched high up near his ears, and now both hands are shaking.

 

“Peril?”

 

Gingerly, Napoleon puts down the paper and uncrosses his legs from on top of the bedspread. He didn't pretend he had the same ability as Gaby in calming down their volatile partner, but he could try before the room got trashed. Napoleon takes even steps to the tall Soviet, contemplating whether to reach out and touch his elbow when Illya half turns toward him and a low, pained sound slips through his clenched teeth.

  
The twitching of his fingers spreads, widens into a violent full-bodied shudder. Napoleon wonders for a brief moment if Illya is having a seizure, but something deep and primal in his gut is filling his body with a feeling he doesn't understand, shallowing his breath as his lungs fill with dread rather than air. His muscles tense in anticipation to run or fight for his life. Something, somewhere in his bones, knows that what is happening is far worse than a seizure.   
  
The face he thought he knew has twisted into something monstrous and bestial. Illya's entire posture has changed, the normal predatory note that stiffened his posture blooming until it saturates every line of his person. Napoleon has a healthy enough respect for his own mortality to know there are some battles that cannot be won. Doesn't make you a coward. He hesitates, wondering if this is one of those times. Muscles tight, nerves clamoring, poised for-- what? He didn't know. But his primitive subconscious would not let him relax or think at all clearly.

 

Illya meets his gaze.

 

His eyes are glassy, void of recognition. His teeth have grown overlong, unable to fit in his mouth the usual way and forcing his lips into a vicious sneer. His nostrils flare. Pupils dilate. Clenched jaws relax and slip wide. He makes a noise, some animal union of a snarl and a howl and Napoleon can feel flecks of thick, blood tinted saliva -- his gums hadn't handled the transformation without injury, it seemed -- spatter his face; the Russian’s newly elongated tongue curling over sharp teeth and dripping drool.    
  


  
Napoleon can't help it: he bolts.


End file.
